


Improvisation

by green_grrl



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Men With Brooms (2002)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-11
Updated: 2007-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_grrl/pseuds/green_grrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris couldn't follow the plan.</p><p>AKA the bachelor party one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improvisation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrsronweasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsronweasley/gifts).



> Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mrsronweasley/profile)[**mrsronweasley**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mrsronweasley/) in the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/midsummer2007/profile)[**midsummer2007**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/midsummer2007/) challenge. Prompt: Cutter/Lennox - as teenagers, or "grown up" (like that ever happened) [Yes, [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mrsronweasley/profile)[**mrsronweasley**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mrsronweasley/), yes it did. :-)] Loads of thanks for super-fast betas and characterization pokes from [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/brooklinegirl/profile)[**brooklinegirl**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/brooklinegirl/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/brigantine1/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/brigantine1/)**brigantine1**!

  


The perfect balance of booze and weed had the party at just the right pitch. Jim waggled the tape box over his head for attention as he made his way to the TV. He popped the cassette in with a flourish, and the tape started with the actors mid-fuck—an unappealing little man with a beer belly and a hairy back humping away on a woman doing a spectacularly bad job of pretending to enjoy it.

"Jesus, fu— What the hell is this? Oh my God! This is the worst porn I've ever seen!" Chris cracked up, staring in disbelief. Neil laughed, too, but ducked his head, and Eddie went a little bug-eyed.

"Hey, sorry, man. Last minute rental. I was going to book the club, but Frances tipped me off there was going to be a raid this weekend—Chief thinks dancing's just a cover for hooking." Which, in the case of the Bunny Hutch, was true. "I couldn't even book an outcall, since they'll be grabbing the appointment book."

Smart move. Julie wouldn't be too happy waiting for the cops to get done questioning her fiancé about his stripper before she could get married. The bitch of it was, two weeks ago, Chris had been Long Bay's hero, skip of the team making a run at the Golden Broom—the cops would have probably let him slide. But now he was the guy that had pulled out of the finals without explanation, destroying the hopes of the entire town. If he got caught up in a raid, the bastards at the police station would probably keep him in all weekend, just for the hell of it.

But still, "And this was the best porn you could find? Jesus Christ."

"Hey, you've seen all my porn."

"Yeah, and it's better than this. Fuck!" Chris laughed and took the joint passed to him. Eddie was blushing a little. Chris knew for a fact Eddie had a little VHS stash of his own, but was private about watching it. Neil was okay with it, though they hardly ever got any down time with him. Any time he wasn't curling he was usually working; guy was killing himself trying to save up.

"Fuck you; it's what I could find. If you want, I can find some D.H. Lawrence and read it out loud or something. You know, if you want _quality_ entertainment—it's your night, baby." They all collapsed into snickers. Jim had come through with some really first-grade weed for the party, and if the porn wasn't good, Chris decided that at least it was funny. What the hell. His last night as a single man, he had his rink and a good buzz on. He'd had worse nights. He was _not_ going to think about worse nights, was not going to think about the fact that the guys were consciously setting aside their questions and doubts to _make_ this a good night for him.

Around one a.m., when the latest music tape ended with a noticeable _click_ and silence settled over the room, Chris called the cab company, and they poured Neil and Eddie into the taxi. Jim was staying over, to do the best man and groom thing in the morning.

"Ah, fucking hell," Chris groaned, sinking back in the sofa. The living room was littered with empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays and leftover snack bowls.

Jim inhaled around a joint with a hiss. "Don't worry about it," he squeaked, trying to hold the smoke in. When he finally let it out, he added, "I've already called for a maid service to come tomorrow while we're at the church."

Chris turned to look at him with a surprised blink.

"Hey," protested Jim, "I have a modicum of class."

Chris snorted, and Jim grinned back.

"Okay, Neil told me I should."

"Oh, hell, Linda probably told him."

Jim acknowledged the truth of that with a toast of his beer, and went over to the stereo to pop in a new cassette. He flopped onto the other end of the sofa.

"So, c'mon, where's the good porn?" Chris demanded, rubbing the heel of his hand against his crotch. He was riding his high through that space where horny and comfortable went hand in hand. Or cock in hand, as it were. If he wasn't getting a stripper, this was at least his last boys' night as a single man.

"Sorry, man. I just picked up this new stuff—I didn't know it was going to suck like a cut-rate hooker."

"God, right now I'd take a cut-rate hooker." Jim had put on a dance mix with a heavy bass beat, and Chris was feeling his—what was it called?—second chakra. Jim had dated a hippie chick for a while, and she'd been ... educational to get stoned with.

"How about a lap dance?"

Chris looked up, blearily. Jim was standing in front of him, knocking his knee against Chris's to get his attention. Chris looked around, confused. "I thought you couldn't get a dancer."

Jim waved off the question. "Fuck the girls. _I_ know how to dance." And he started swaying his hips to the beat. The funny thing was, Jim _was_ the best dancer out of the group. Chris knew he and the other two lumbered to the music like the white guys they were, but Jim somehow managed a little funk in his moves. Only this time he was adding a stripshow to his dance.

Chris snickered. Jim kept stripping. Chris noted somewhere in the back of his brain that Jim had obviously paid attention during all those visits to the Hutch.

But then Jim was down to his boxers, and moved forward, placing one knee on the couch next to Chris's hip, then the other knee by the other hip. Chris looked up at Jim astride his lap. This was pretty far for a joke, but it _was_ Lennox, and he was a crazy fucker. Chris decided to brazen it out with a grin.

Jim lowered his crotch down right over Chris's and started grinding to the beat.

Oh, _Jesus_.

Julie had cut him off a week ago—something about waiting for the wedding. And now with a night's worth of alcohol and pot in him, plus that let's-fuck music and a warm body pressing rhythmically against his cock ... Chris swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Then he cracked them open just a bit and looked down. The boxers didn't hide much—Jim was getting hard, too.

Fuck. They hadn't done anything like this in _years_ , not since they'd gotten old enough to get dates with real girls. Except that one time, and that other ... But, still, not since they'd been teenagers. Drunk and stoned and horny, they'd played plenty of times with what it felt like to have someone else's hand on your cock, and then they'd grown out of it. Tonight, maybe not so much, and Chris wasn't minding at all.

He ground up into Jim a little, then opened his eyes. Jim was staring at his mouth, and Chris realized he was running his tongue along his lower lip. He gave a slow grin, and another roll of his hips. Jim pushed into him, automatically.

"You know, you have the advantage, me being in these jeans." Chris's voice sounded low and husky to his own ears, and he blamed the late hour.

"Well, let's just see what we can do to level the playing field." Jim grinned and dropped his hands to Chris's fly. He popped the buttons open one at a time, the fucking tease. Jesus, when had Lennox gotten _fun_ in bed? Of course—when he'd started having sex on a regular basis, and figured out what the hell he was doing. Come to think of it, Chris had a few more moves these days, too.

Jim peeled down their boxers, one at a time, and took them both in hand. They'd never done this, pressed bare, hardness to hardness. Feeling that velvety texture against his own sensitive skin was new and— _wow_ —Chris's stoned mind wanted to follow that sensation down the rabbit hole. Then Jim squeezed and hijacked Chris's attention in a different direction. What was that he was thinking about being better at sex, again? Oh yeah ...

Chris ran his hands over Jim's arms and shoulders, and down his chest. He took a moment to trace Jim's beaver tat. On the ice and off, they fought like brothers and defended each other like brothers. Nothing came between—Chris pulled back from thinking about how he'd betrayed his rink. Right now it was just the two of them, and if Jim was willing to get this close to him, then he'd take it.

He ran his fingers over Jim's nipples and pinched them stiff, making Jim hump harder into his own fist. Yeah, that was fun. Chris matched his rhythm, and searched for more hot spots on Jim's body with his hands.

A finger drawn down Jim's neck made him shiver slightly, so Chris pulled him forward a little and leaned over to ... lick. Oh yeah, Jim _whimpered_ at that. Chris pulled him in and held him so he could attack the tendon with his mouth, nibbling and sucking and feeling Jim wriggle against him. Jim's hand moved faster, and they both panted as they got closer to the edge.

"Aah!" Chris felt the pulsing against his own dick before a sudden wetness was added to Jim's grip, and Christ on a cracker, thank _God_ Jim didn't slow down his stroke or slacken his hold through his orgasm because— _yeah_ —with that newly slicked motion Chris was right there, and then he was _over_ , face turned into Jim's neck to muffle the cries.

Chris kept his face buried in Jim's neck a little longer than he should. He was ready to blame being stoned, or post-orgasmic, or any other convenient excuse. But in fact, he _did_ realize, way more quickly than he wanted to, what they looked like. What this _was_. Two men, closer than close. Jim on his _lap_. Chris _embracing_ him. Crotches bare and splattered. And he liked it.

And he clung to it for what he wished it was—a way to pretend that he hadn't fucked everything up as spectacularly as he had, two weeks ago. The orgasm had burned off his chemical high, though, and sober he was distressingly unable to lie to himself.

Finally, Jim pushed lightly at him with his clean hand. "Hey man, it's kleenex or your shirt, your choice."

Chris puffed a laugh through his nose. "I think the shirt's already a lost cause." But he lifted his head and unwrapped his arms from Jim's back. "So, uh, what the hell was that?"

Jim shrugged as he pulled his boxers up and backed off to stand. He looked around for something to wipe his hand on while he replied, "Improvisation, man. No man should go into the bonds of matrimony without getting his rocks off—it's tradition. Admittedly not usually with the best man, but needs must when the devil drives." He cleaned himself with a cocktail napkin.

"When the devil drives? I didn't see you kicking and screaming all the way to _le petit mort_."

Jim spread his arms and put on his charming face. " _I_ never turn down sex."

Chris shook his head with a rueful chuckle. "Apparently, neither do I."

"Are we cool, man? I didn't freak you out or anything, did I?" Jim put a little challenge in his voice, but Chris knew he was worried he'd fucked up their friendship.

"No, yeah. Yeah. It's fine. You're cool. Nothing we haven't done before—uh, more or less." But the melancholy was taking hold again.

And Jim knew him too damned well. He wouldn't quit until he'd rooted out Chris's problem. "What is it? The wedding? You aren't getting cold feet, are you?"

Good enough excuse. "It's not— It's just, why is _Julie_ marrying _me_? For God's sake, she has a master's degree—she could do anything with her life." And what the hell was she doing with him? A cheater. A moody bastard. A stoner. A flake.

"What, is she too good for her dad, too? C'mon. She's known you her whole life. Her dad respects you—hell, her whole family loves you. You are _in_ , my friend." Chris swallowed hard, kept his face blank. "Now you want to see someone out of his league, it's Bucyk dating Linda. She could give a crap about him being a fucking amazing lead stone, and a hell of a nice guy. Her whole family is snobs 'r us."

Chris played along with the standing joke. "The Kuntz."

Jim pointed. "Too right, my friend. No, you and Julie are all right. Don't worry about it. Cold feet's just another tradition. Now c'mon and get your ass to bed, before we sleep through the alarm tomorrow and piss off the bride by being late."

Chris dutifully went to his bedroom, and stripped and lay down while Jim headed to the guest room. Sleep didn't come, though. Jim's words— _her dad respects you_ —echoed in his brain. The side of his foot throbbed where he could still feel the kiss of rock against it, and he tossed restlessly. He had betrayed the honor of the sport, and quitting the tournament and dropping the stones in the lake hadn't gotten rid of the guilt. If anything, it was worse, knowing that everyone had been tiptoeing around him; but he hadn't been able to bring himself to confess. _Her dad respects you._ He wouldn't, if he knew. _She_ wouldn't, if she knew. And the guys—they'd be crushed.

Jim—goddamn Lennox—the guy was _perceptive_. Chris wouldn't even need to tell him. Sooner or later he would figure it out on his own and give him one of those right-between-the-eyes blasts of truth. Would he be sorry then that he'd crawled onto Chris's lap and gotten, well, intimate?

Unable to manage more than a fitful doze, Chris got up when the sky greyed before the early May dawn. He slipped silently down the hall to the guest room. Jim was blissfully sleeping the sleep of the untroubled, deeply unconscious after the night of partying. Despite the dim, silvery light, Chris could easily make out the hickey he'd put on Jim's neck. He watched from the doorway, thinking while Jim slept, then finally turned and went back to his room.

He already had a suitcase packed for the mini honeymoon he and Julie had planned for the weekend. It was the work of another fifteen minutes to put together a duffle with anything else he didn't want to leave behind. Then he wrote the note that he knew Jim would give to Julie, even though she wasn't the only one it was for. He took his bags out into the cool pre-dawn and loaded them in the Chevy.

This was it. One glance back to the house where his friend slept, and then he got in the car and drove out of Long Bay.

On his pillow was a piece of paper that said only:

_I'm sorry._

_—C_


End file.
